Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The river banks, how green they grew,
The fields, how bright with fruit and flower;
The stately shape, the sober hue
Of that majestic old Church tower.

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It was a sight to touch with joy
The heart of middle-aged or old,
And I was then a beardless boy,
A scholar of Etonian mould.

But on my spirit's inward eye
That scene a deeper rapture pour'd;
It spoke of home and kindred nigh,
Of holiday delights restored.

Almost, from that high point of road,
The Wrekin's summit I might see;
Almost, above my sire's abode,
The loftier ridges of the Clee.

The breezes there seem'd fraught with bliss
From haunts in which I lov'd to roam,
And stirr'd my spirit like the kiss
Which welcom'd son and brother home.

And thus that tower and town became
A sacred land-mark to my view,
And round my heart their cherish'd name
Entwined with pleasant memories grew.

II.—THE WHEREABOUT UNVISITED.

The banks of Thames are fresh and green,
The towers which crown them passing fair,
And churlish souls forget their spleen,
And homesick hearts grow happy there:

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But slow and slimy is thy stream,
Flat are thy flowerless banks, O Cam,
And dimly does the daylight gleam
Through miles of smoke round Birmingham:

And he who travels through that smoke,
To rest beside that sluggish slime,—
Is not among the happiest folk
Within the bounds of space and time.

In one brief month I bade farewell
To school and to my boyhood's home,
In new, less pleasant haunts to dwell,
Through new, less pleasant roads to roam.

And years roll'd by, and still I pass'd
Through that delicious vale no more;
It seem'd that I had look'd my last
On tower and town, on stream and shore.

And now, as time fled swiftly on,
Its beauty, and almost its name,
With boyish pleasures past and gone,
A memory and a dream became.

It sank into the phantom land
Of vanish'd scenes beloved of yore,—
When joy was felt, and schemes were plann'd,
In manhood felt and plann'd no more.

In memory's deepest cell it lay,
With those romantic banks of Rea,—
With that old mansion far away,
So long the home of mine and me;

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With that ancestral mansion dear,
Long lost, still loved with vain regret,
In which, at Christmas, year by year,
Aunts, uncles, cousins, kinsfolk met;—

With oriel windows richly stain'd,
With passage long and creaking stair,
With treasur'd records which remain'd
Of the first Charles's sojourn there;

With oratory small and lone
Where saintly knees in prayer had bent,
Or e'er the altar with the throne
Went down before the parliament;

With spacious lawns and shrubberies green,
With urns and statues choicely placed,
With gravel walks that wound between,
In somewhat of artistic taste;

With flights of steps which from the door
Led down to that old-fashion'd pond,
With fir-tree clumps that grew before,
With hills and churches seen beyond;

With these, with scenes like these beloved,—
With that small town by Kennet's side,
Where first a school-boy's cares I proved,
When first I felt a school-boy's pride;

With that eternal Roman road,
Without a break, without a bend,
Which homeward when we started, show'd
Where twelve miles off the stage should end;

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With Eton's shade, with Windsor's height,
With sport and study, grief and joy,
Which train for deeds of future might
The spirit of the English boy;—

With these, like half-forgotten things,
That tower and town neglected lay,
While hope and fancy plum'd their wings,
And boyhood's dreams to youth's gave way.

Then love was born;—within my veins
The burning blood like wildfire ran;
I felt the pleasures and the pains,
The cares and triumphs of the man;

But still, in hours of calmer thought,
When, from the present's strife and din,
The mind repose and refuge sought
In that sweet past which slept within,—

Among the dreams of old delight,
Evok'd from memory's spectral cell,
Return'd that scene, so fresh, so bright,
Belov'd so long, retain'd so well.

III.—THE WHEREABOUT VISITED.

“Come list to me, my bonny bride,
(For such this ring will make thee soon),—
And judge if I aright provide
Employment for our honey-moon.

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“My parents ne'er have seen thy face,
And they must learn to love it well;
And so with them, a little space,
We two, ere we return, will dwell.

“But first, as fitting 'tis and right,
Like the first couple, all alone,
For some few weeks of pure delight,
We'll make an Eden of our own;—

“An Eden of congenial thought,
Where heart to heart, and mind to mind,
Shall teach in turn, in turn be taught
Its proper paradise to find.

“And with the present and the past
The unknown future shall combine
The rainbow tints of hope to cast
O'er this twin life of thine and mine.

“And first 'twill be a joy sublime
To trace with thee the self-same track
Which brought me, in my schoolboy-time,
To home and friends and freedom back.

“So, having seal'd these vows of ours
In yonder Church, our course we'll bend
Tow'rd Oxford's stately domes and towers,
And there our first day's travel end.

“And when through college-court and hall
We've paced with reverential tread,
And view'd the relics, each and all,
Bequeath'd us by the saintly dead,—

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“By Worcester's old cathedral tower,
'Midst orchard-slopes and hop-grounds wide,
We'll twine once more our nuptial bower
For brief repose on Severn's side.

“The third day's travel shall reveal
My childhood's home,—my home no more;
And thou shalt share what I shall feel
In haunts belov'd from days of yore.

“Next night on Ludlow's castled steep,
Beside the banks of winding Teme,—
Where Milton slept, we two will sleep,
Where Milton dream'd, we two will dream.

“Thence through a smiling border land
Of tufted hills and verdant vales,
We'll journey on, until we stand
Beneath the mountain peaks of Wales.

“We'll view Llangollen's pastoral hills,
We'll climb the Cader's giant side,
We'll quaff Dolgelly's crystal rills,
And then on Barmouth's sands abide.

“The western breeze thy strength shall brace,
The western sea-breeze cool thy brow,
And then once more we'll shift our place,—
Still onward, onward, I and thou.

“We'll garnish Gelert's grave with flowers,
Thence passing through sweet Gwynant's vale,
Where o'er Llanberis Snowdon towers
We'll hoist on that small lake our sail.

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“The Menai bridge, not yet complete,
Caernarvon Castle famed in song,
And Capel Cürig's lone retreat,
Will scarce arrest our progress long.

“But once again by Severn's side,
Beneath the Wrekin's slope, will we
With loving hearts at rest abide,
With hearts that long for thee and me.”

Thus to my willing bride I sang,
And thus while, on our wedding-day,
With peal on peal the belfry rang,—
We started on our westward way:

But now the second sun had set
(So long in Oxford linger'd we)
And night closed darkly in, ere yet
The towers of Worcester we could see.

So nine miles off our course we stay'd
In that small town on Avon's shore,
And there our second halt we made,
And talk'd our two days' travel o'er.

Beneath the old grey tower we slept,—
The river flow'd in silence nigh,
And nightingales beside it kept
Sweet vigils for our lullaby.

And when together we had past
That landmark of my earlier life,
Bridegroom and bride seem'd changing fast
To soberer, happier man and wife.

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Forward in full career we sped
To good or ill, to joy or pain,
And thrice nine years almost had fled
Ere I beheld that town again.

IV.—THE WHEREABOUT REVISITED.

A younger sister had my bride,
A creature form'd in daintiest mould,—
Sweet-voiced, sweet-thoughted, loving-eyed,
And when we wedded, six years old.

To woman's ripe estate she grew
Unpluck'd,—a stately virgin flower;
Then first a genuine passion knew,
And bow'd her neck to Hymen's power.

And now full two connubial years
Had left behind her wedding-morn,
And wedlock's weight of hopes and fears,
Of joys and sorrows she had borne;

When to our home her spouse and she,—
A grave divine,—a glorious dame,—
In wedlock's awful pomp, to see
Their elderly relations came.

“Now, master bard,” (in wedded pride
Thus spoke to me that matron fair)
“You and my consort must divide
Your next week's duty, share for share.

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“He from your pulpit here shall teach
Your willing flock, and you shall hie
Some sixty railway miles, and preach
Where else his Sunday work would lie.

“Thus with my sister two days yet
We two unparted may abide,
And you for your reward shall get,
At our expense—a railway ride.”

Obedient to the word I went,
For mine had been a heart of stone
To see Joan's heart for Darby rent,
And Darby's heart distraught for Joan.

So when the week drew near its close,
The wings of steam had borne me nigh
The spot where once, in brief repose,
Slumber'd and dream'd my bride and I.

And thus once more I came to view
Those banks so bright with fruit and flower,
The stately shape, the sober hue
Of that majestic old Church tower.

V.—THE VICARAGE.

The Vicar's wall is on the right
As from the station home you fare,
Facing a street by day and night
So still, life seems extinguish'd there.

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Around and in it silence dwells
As of a place long past its prime;
Best broken by the sound of bells
Which from the grand old abbey chime.

Across the winding ancient street
The trees, which fence the churchyard round,
Almost with outstretch'd branches meet
Their sisters in the vicarage ground.

And, shelter'd by the latters' shade,
The modest mansion stands retired;
By tenants of its master's trade
A mansion to be much desired.

There, on a bracing eve of May,
Did I from one-horse chaise alight,
Just as the skies were robed in grey,
And twilight deep'ning into night.

The vicar and the vicar's wife
Were absent both, as you may guess;
No sound of childhood's sport or strife
Disturb'd or cheer'd the loneliness.

But on the threshold, frank and bland,
The curate to receive me stood;
The curate's wife was near at hand,
In ripe maternal womanhood.

And one beside,—a spinster dame,
Whose native spring of cheerful mirth
Not fourscore years and six could tame,
Nor rob her of her joy on earth.

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Soon at a well replenish'd board
I sat with those congenial three;
Fresh were the eggs, and freely pour'd
The long libations of the tea;

And still, as wit and mirth increas'd,
Clear'd was the board and drain'd the bowl;
And we, that night, enjoy'd “the feast
Of reason and the flow of soul:”

And ere to welcome sleep I sank,
I felt that town had charms more rare
Than tower or tree or river-bank,
Or orchard bloom or pasture fair.

VI.—THE ABBEY CHURCH.

Bound by no laws of time or place
Are Christian hearts for praise and prayer,
Their temple—universal space,
Their service—always—everywhere.

Ill fares it with the man who needs
A stated hour, a certain shrine,
A fixed routine of form and creed
Recited duly line by line;

Whose whole devotion ebbs and flows
At intervals of night and day,
And sinks and rises, comes and goes,—
This moment here, the next away.

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And yet, while man continues man,
And govern'd by his nature's law,—
Resist it as we may or can,
Will holy places soothe and awe.

Where saintly knees have often knelt
A calmer peace the spirit fills,
And reverence more devout is felt
In churches than in cotton-mills.

I would not slight the influence shed
By pillar'd aisle, by choir and nave,
Or by the memory of the dead
Beneath reposing in the grave.

The spirit undevout and cold
Elsewhere, its nature will retain
Where bones of holy men of old
For centuries at rest have lain;

And those who climb to mountain peaks
Unmoved, or lightly pace the shore
When deep to deep in fury speaks,
And lightnings flash and thunders roar,

May well unmoved continue still
In temples built by mortal hand,
Where choicest architectural skill
Combines the graceful with the grand;

But they who, wheresoe'er hath been
Their path, have that in reverence trod,
And in and on it felt and seen
The impress of the hand of God,

301

Will with profounder awe subdued
Within time-hallow'd temples tread,
And feel with loftier faith imbued
By that dim presence of the dead.

So thought I, when that Churchyard's bound
Approaching,—with a chilling shock
Of baffled hope the gate I found
Close fasten'd with a ponderous lock.

Immur'd like cloister'd maidenhood,—
A spring shut up, a fountain seal'd,—
The beauteous Church forbidden stood,—
Its loveliness but half reveal'd.

No foot of man, no reverent glance
Might penetrate the shrine within,—
Beneath its shadow to advance
Seem'd counted as a deadly sin.

Six days a week the churchyard lay,
And half the seventh, by human tread
Untouch'd—no living foot might stray
Beside the mansions of the dead.

Ah! why?—this stormy, earthly life
Of fear and hope, of toil and care,
Might find from all its fret and strife
Sometimes a moment's refuge there;

Amidst the graves awhile be taught
Remembrance that the flesh must die;
Within the Church awake the thought
Of the soul's immortality.

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This surely were no mortal crime,
No taint of Babylonish leaven,
No bondage dark to place or time,
No wrong ascent from earth to heaven.

Why needless barriers interpose
Eternity and time between?
Why thus the gate of entrance close
To intercourse with things unseen?

Such questions soon fit answer found;—
Time was, by some scarce yet forgot,
When, even within this holy ground,
The world's worst spirit rested not.

Strange custom!—even amidst the graves
Which most irreverent feet would spare,—
Where now at will the spear-grass waves,
Was held—an annual cattle-fair.

Almost beneath the sacred roof
Was heard the bleat of herds and flocks;
The tombs by the regardless hoof
Were trampled of the horse and ox;

And recklessly into the ground
Their stakes and poles the rustics drave,
And coffins oft unearth'd were found,
And scatter'd relics of the grave.

Strange legacy from days of old,
When monks of Benedictine rule
Within the Church-enclosure sold
Their calves and lambs, their corn and wool.

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Strange legacy for years to keep,
When friar and monk, black, white and grey,
Before the Reformation's sweep
Had pass'd like feverish dreams away;

When even the Abbey Church itself,
The nave destroy'd, scarce saved its choir,
And rent and tithe became the pelf
Of courtier-lord and country squire.

What marvel, if at last the wrath
Of outraged feeling, fierce though late,
Closed up the desecrated path
And lock'd the too commodious gate?

Between extremes our human mind
Will vacillate and waver long,
And late at last, if ever, find
The path of right 'twixt wrong and wrong.

But hush!—'tis now no part of mine
To meditate a moral lay,—
To search for clouds, when sunbeams shine,—
To preach—when first 'tis time to pray.

The Sunday skies were bright and blue,
The Sunday chimes rang blithely near,—
To poet's eye how dear that view!—
How sweet that music to his ear!

And gaily dress'd in all their best,
The children of the Sunday-school
By looks and words and ways express'd
Experience of their pastor's rule.

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And at the stated service-time
A congregation full and grave,
Beneath that abbey roof sublime,
Intoned the chaunt and droned the stave.

And from the altar, loud and clear,
My trumpet-tones roll'd out and rang,
And serious hearts were touch'd to hear,
And choral voices swell'd and sang.

And from the pulpit slowly down
Returning, when my text was spun,
I felt 'twixt me and that old town
A new relationship begun.

VII.—THE CURATE AT HOME.

There's something in a cloister's bound,
And something in a convent cell;
If not in sense, at least in sound,
The words ring clear and jingle well;

But nought exists so pure, so sweet,
Within the wide expanse of earth,
As love and learning's joint retreat—
The English pastor's home and hearth.

The dear constraint of household ties,
The daily kiss of wife and child,
The love which gushes to the eyes
From springs of feeling undefiled;—

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The round of duties blithely run,
Where each and all their parts fulfil,
Like stars revolving round the sun
In their appointed orbits still;—

The frugal, yet convivial meal,
At which familiar faces throng,—
The health which looks and limbs reveal,—
The morning task, the evening song;—

The prayer and praise at morn and night,
For blessings shared, for sins forgiven—
These make the pastor's dwelling bright
With gleams as of approaching Heaven.

Thus in the curate's home I felt,
When, from the shrine where Christians pray
Return'd, with him and his I dwelt,
And shared their meals that pleasant day.

The kindness of the home-bred heart,
The natural manners, frank and free,
The simple tastes unspoilt by art,
The true old English courtesy,—

The evening walk with sire and child,
By river bank, o'er hill and dale,
Through which her song, abrupt and wild,
Trill'd out the unwearied nightingale,—

The after melody more high,
And scarce less sweet, of household hymn,
And anthems soaring to the sky
As on the wings of seraphim;—

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Such pleasures that sweet Sunday crown'd,—
A Sunday such as Christians love
Whose hearts on earth by faith have found
The key-note of the songs above.

VIII.—THE BOUDOIR.

Small praise from me shall e'er be won
For virtues of conventual life;
I rank the most seraphic nun
Below the least seraphic wife.

Nor doth my fancy much incline
(For all that hath been sung or said
Of celibacy's life divine)
To ancient bachelor or maid:

But this I will at least maintain—
That of the last two kinds there be,
Each unlike each, in growth and grain,
As crab to golden-pippin tree.

The former is a virgin still,
Against her once decided voice;
The latter, of her free good will,
Unmated by deliberate choice.

The former's prospects have been marr'd
By fortune's trick or lover's slight;
She sees and feels herself debarr'd
From what she deems her sex's right.

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By disappointment thus devour'd,
What marvel, if her heart be sear'd,
Her judgment warp'd, her temper sour'd
Tow'rd all without or with a beard?

The latter hath, at duty's call,
Or haply by peculiar taste,
Surrender'd freely woman's all,
And let her beauty run to waste:

She cheers a widow'd parent's life,
She dries a widow'd brother's tears;
Denied the gentle name of wife,
She feels the mother's griefs and fears;—

She dwells on earth as angels might,
To self-denying labours given;
Walking by faith and not by sight,—
Her treasure and her heart in Heaven.

And such—if things are what they seem,
And I my judgment rightly frame
From signs external—such I deem
Mine hostess was—that ancient dame.

At eighty-six to be alive,
Nor yet exempt from earthly care,—
With those who fail and those who thrive,
Their sorrows and their joys to share,—

For social converse to retain
A ready wit, a cheerful tongue—
To feel, in pleasure and in pain,
Alike for middle-aged and young;—

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This speaks at least a genial heart,—
A heart which nature soothes and stirs;
Which still in this world bears its part,—
And such a heart, I deem, was hers.

My morning walk had made me late,
And she the household prayers had read,
Before at breakfast, tête-a-tête,
We brake the absent Vicar's bread.

Nor, though infirm and bent of frame,
Would she from courteous pains forbear:
That breakfast might have put to shame
Full many a younger matron's care.

But when 'twas done—“'tis time,” quoth she,
“That on your kindness I presume,
To ask if you will come and see
My own peculiar, private room.”

And, slow of step, she led the way
With all the stately pride of age,
To where her prized dominions lay,—
A grave, majestic pilgrimage.

The passages which thither led
Were lined with books on either side,
Which if she read not or she read,
'Tis not my province to decide;

But this I may with truth aver—
That she possess'd a mine of lore
Which scholar or philosopher
Possessing need demand no more.

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And shelf on shelf, and case by case,
Her chamber walls were furnish'd round,
Where each its own appointed place,
Octavo, quarto, folio, found.

Nor there was wanting sofa soft,
Nor ottoman, nor trim settee;
Floor—windows—walls-beneath—aloft,—
The room was snug as snug could be.

And jars of china costly-quaint
Fill'd up each vacant space and span,
'Midst portraits grim of sage and saint,
And cabinets of rich japan.

And many a tale of times gone by,
And many a gentle boast had she,
Of relics saved from ruin nigh,—
The glories of her ancestry,—

Of heirlooms still preserv'd with care
From countless generations back;
Poor gauds, which avarice deign'd to spare,
When house and land had gone to wrack.

And then, with graceful pride she told
How, still herself unwedded, she
Had nursed, from youth until grown old,
The hopes of half her family;—

And how, to her protecting arm,
Entrusted from their very birth,
Had infants been preserv'd from harm,
To fill a prosperous place on earth.

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Strange mixture did her speech betray
Of strength and weakness,—but to me
Celestial light appear'd to play
From out that fond garrulity.

Bright flashes fell upon the page
Of future life, whereby 'twas shown
How even the feeblest days of age
Have joy and comfort of their own.

I seem'd admonish'd not to fear,
As fear'd I have, my own decay,
When health and strength shall disappear,
And mind's last vigour fade away.

But still, the heart-springs to refresh
By exercise of faith and love,
Secure that fainting soul and flesh
Shall be supported from above.

IX.—THE CURATE ABROAD.

A train, not due till half-past one,
Defined the limit of my stay;
So, that grave conference past and done,
Four vacant hours before me lay;

And though my host was hardly press'd
By work among the sick and old,
And much himself had need of rest
From Sunday labours manifold,—

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For no remonstrance I could urge
Would he his courteous task forego,
But from his study must emerge
The wonders of the land to show.

So, staff in hand, we sallied forth,
And o'er the uplands clomb our way,
Where East and West, and South and North,
A world of gorgeous beauty lay.

The Breadon's green and grassy steep
On the left hand the prospect closed,
And like a Titaness asleep
Huge Malvern on the right reposed.

And far around, and in between,
Lay wood and water, rock and lea,
And blossoms hid the orchard green
With promise rich of fruit to be.

So fair a scene,—so calm, so bright,
Might well entrance the outward eye,
And with contemplative delight
The inward vision satisfy.

But on that pleasant morning walk
Were other charms than Nature's shed;
Grave thought was ours and earnest talk,—
Full intercourse of heart and head.

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A traveller had the curate been
On many a foreign sea and shore,
Much had he read, much had he seen,—
A man of multifarious lore.

With keen, attentive eye had view'd
The characters and minds of men,
And trains of sober thought pursued,
Beyond a superficial ken.

But still, whate'er he did or said,
One settled purpose you might see
In every act and word betray'd,—
To spread the truth which makes us free.

Through praise and blame, through gain and loss,
Through every form of good and ill,
He seem'd a soldier of the cross,
Undaunted and unwearied still:

With steadfast persevering toil,
Wrought in his own peculiar sphere,
And till'd a poor, ungrateful soil,
From month to month, from year to year;

Yet still, with comprehensive glance,
Survey'd all fields of Christian war,—
Watch'd truth's embattled host advance,
And cheer'd its onset from afar:

In speech ablaze with heavenly fire,
The cause of missions loved to plead,
And urged, with zeal which nought could tire,
The claims of our colonial need.

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A man of thought and action too,
Even to grey hairs from earliest youth,—
A pastor, such as earth hath few,
In word and tongue, in deed and truth.

So, side by side, in earnest talk,
We two o'er hill and valley strode,
Till, with our words and with our walk,
Together soul and body glow'd.

But feeble all, beside that heart
Of energy and zeal sublime
Appear'd the bard's inventive art,—
The skill to weave fantastic rhyme.

Rebuked before a manlier thought
The poet's gaudy fancy bow'd;
The teacher must himself be taught,
The preacher less than ever proud.

We finish'd our pedestrian round,—
Such walks must needs take long to tire,
And stood once more on holy ground,
Within the grand old Abbey choir.

Each crypt and cloister, arch and wall,
Did we with curious eyes explore;
The tombs and tablets, one and all,
The brasses on the transept floor.

Then, having snatch'd a swift repast,
(For now the time was waxing late,
And railway trains run far and fast,)
The one-horse chaise was at the gate.

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And after words of brief adieu
To matron and to maiden-kind,
The tower receded fast from view,—
Town, river, hills, were left behind.

We parted at the station-door,
(That stalwart-hearted priest and I,)
Perchance on earth to meet no more,—
And cordial was our last good-bye.

And homeward as I fleetly sped,
I marvell'd in the train, alone,
How noblest hearts are born and bred
To live and die in spheres unknown.

And then I thought how tower and stream
Had suddenly become to me
No more a dim romantic dream,
A freak of youthful phantasy;

But a staid home for sober thought,
O'er which remembrance still might brood,—
A new-found joy, which came unsought
In life's declining lustihood.

And well I knew, when (home return'd,)
I ponder'd my excursion o'er,
That in and through it I had earn'd
A treasure not possess'd before.

The ridge of Malvern, as seen from some points of view, bears a considerable resemblance to a gigantic female figure recumbent sidelong, the head reposing on the extended arm.